poured herself another cup.
“He admired Paul’s sermons. I think he told the detective about them. I’m sure he didn’t say anything about me. I don’t think he’d confess to anyone. How am I going to tell him about the will? My God, he’ll have a fit.”
The two women sat silently.
“But never mind me. What about you? It must have been a terrible shock for you when you read Paul’s will. And really hard for you to phone. I’m so grateful that you came to tell me.” Denise said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“It has been pretty grim. Thanks for the offer, but there’s nothing you or anyone else can do. Paul was a malicious, conniving bastard, pure and simple. I only wish I could promise to keep it a secret and arrange for you to pick up the cheque at the lawyer’s office.” Hollis shook her head. “But I can’t—wills are probated—made a matter of public record. Because of Paul’s notoriety and his murder, it’ll only be a matter of time before the will is read, maybe even reported in the paper. And such bizarre bequests will attract attention.”
Denise covered her face with her hands. “My God, what a price to pay. My kids will disown me.” She dropped her hands, rose and walked around the table where she bent, circled Hollis’s shoulders with her arms and hugged her. “Thank you for warning me.”
Driving home, Hollis wondered about Stan Eakins and his temper.
Chequebooks in her bag, Rhona drove to the Gloucester branch of the Bank of Commerce, where the eager young manager, exuding fumes of Obsession, shepherded her through the thick steel doorway, the door ajar to facilitate business, and into the vault. He scanned the entries in the dog-eared log safety deposit box users signed each time they opened their boxes.
“You’re right.” The manager lifted his eyes from the log. “Paul Robertson’s name is here. Now for the acid test—will this key work?”
The bank’s master key unlocked the first lock, and Rhona’s key unlocked the second. When the chunky little door swung open, the manager slid the long steel container out of its slot and handed it to Rhona before he conducted her out of the vault and into one of three private cell-like rooms where owners emptied or added to the contents of their boxes.
Rhona raised the grey metal lid and peered inside—it was empty. Emerging from the cubicle she handed the box, the chequebook and a search warrant to the manager. “I’d like a print-out of recent activity for this box and for the account that goes with these cheque books.”
The manager trotted off. Simpson chose one of the thinly upholstered chairs in the waiting area and considered the pamphlets shilling the bank’s various services. She’d read through the info on mortgages and sat back to wonder if she and Zack might buy a place if she moved to Toronto when the manager reappeared. Simpson dropped the brochure on the pale wood table and stood up. Being short was bad enough—she hated to have anyone speak to her when she was sitting down.
“I took a quick glance, and it doesn’t appear the box has been opened this year. The chequing account is in Paul Robertson’s name, and there’s been a great deal of activity over the last three years—regular deposits and corresponding withdrawals. The balance never increased above the initial four hundred dollars he deposited to open it—in fact, it’s decreased to cover administrative charges.”
“Would you go over the listings for the past three years as well as the log of the safety deposit box? List every date when Paul Robertson used the box and fax the list to me along with a printout of the activity in the chequing account for the last year.” She handed her card to the manager. The manager promised to assign someone to work on it right away.
Driving downtown, Rhona filled the car with a fug of smoke. Paul Robertson had deviated far from his usual haunts to open this secret account—he must have had a reason. Perhaps he parked cash in the safety deposit box until he needed it for something else. And the chequing account—it appeared he was laundering money. She shook her head. This could be a wild goose chase—she had no concrete reason to think Robertson was a blackmailer. However, on the off chance he was, Rhona would obtain warrants to enable her to scrutinize withdrawals from JJ Staynor’s, Tessa Uiska’s and Marcus Toberman’s accounts to see if any of their withdrawals matched Robertson’s deposits.
At police headquarters on the way to her own office, she stopped to check how Featherstone was making out with the list of runners. Without waiting for an invitation, she sat on the chrome and green plastic visitor’s chair while Featherstone finished an ongoing phone conversation.
“We have to match every name on the list of runners with an address.” Featherstone listened. “That’s your problem. You’d better figure out how to solve it because I want names, addresses and phone numbers and I want them yesterday.”
After the constable banged the phone down and shook her head, she reached for her notebook. “Anything else I should be working on?”
Rhona crossed her legs and admired the colour and workmanship of her cowboy boots. “You heard someone tried to break in to Robertson’s house last night?”
The constable nodded and doodled on the pad. From where Rhona sat, it resembled a mustachioed desperado.
“And someone shot at his wife when she was running this morning and someone left what might have been a letter bomb in the front hall of the manse.”
“I heard about the shooting but not about the letter.” Featherstone jotted down a few words and enclosed the desperado behind prison bars.
“I had the bomb squad pick it up, but I feel pretty sure it wasn’t a bomb.”
“Psychic power?”
“No, when I saw it, I left it alone ,not only in case it was a letter bomb, but in case we could lift fingerprints or DNA. It would have been in A-1 condition if Ms Grant’s dog hadn’t picked it up. He pranced into the kitchen and dropped the envelope at her feet as if he was bringing her a great treasure. Obviously, since I’m here to tell you about it, it didn’t explode, but it’s dripping with dog saliva.”
Featherstone rocked in her swivel chair and giggled. “Like the movies. They’ll be shooting a movie titled Simpson and—what’s the dog’s name?”
Rhona hated being the butt of a joke but recognized the humour in the situation. “MacTee. They should have named him Zamboni—he produces more drool than a rink watering machine.”
“It doesn’t have the same ring to it as Turner and Hooch, but Simpson and MacTee might go somewhere.”
Rhona directed what she considered her “dagger to the heart” glare at the constable.
Featherstone’s smile vanished. “Are you giving Ms Grant extra protection?”
“Not yet. If whoever shot her had wanted to kill her, it would have been easy. I think he intended to scare her. How are you coming with the list?”
“Should have it done by the end of the day. The routine stuff’s finished. We’ve run a survey of out-of-towners. The minister from up the valley, Leach, may have had a motive, but Robertson did him dirt a long time ago, and it’s hard to believe he’d nurse a grudge all these years. As far as we’ve been able
